The tiny white lumps rising over my skin
remind me of the goose bumps I always got
when you were around. The dull sting of nettles
recalls the tickle of your lips brushing my skin;
I always had to scratch you from my surface.
The slender stems so similar to your slim body
remind me of times when you wound around me
like a desperate vine, tangling me in your needy grasp.
Sometimes you were overwhelmingly stifling prickling
at my skin; we always ignored surface tension
to search for our deeper beauty. Like weeds,
we lost sight of our purity and unity when uprooted,
being torn so callously apart. Somehow, I lost you.
Now all that’s left are the nettles.